


The Blossom and the Wilt

by Argyle



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012)
Genre: Canon - Movie, M/M, Missing Scene, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By necessity, Henry was quite good at appearing to have eaten when in fact he hadn't touched a morsel -- it was all in the economy of space -- but he always rather resented having to do so. And yet Abe wasn't ready to know the truth about Henry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blossom and the Wilt

The stories went back millennia. Naturally, one needed the wherewithal to look in the right places and enough time at hand to suss out meaning, but Henry had ample supplies of both. He'd long ago mastered the art of discovery. Babylonian priests whose appetite could only be sated by virgins, Roman senators with a particular sensitivity of eye, uncannily long-lived conquistadores, and all the rest were there for the finding: century upon century of vampires.

Henry hardly even cared to count those who in earlier years had walked the land as gods and demanded a blood tithe as freely. But he knew he wasn't a deity, nor truly a demon. He and his brethren were merely tainted. Just another beast in the kingdom, and though admittedly one more finely-armed than the tiger, vampires were no less dependent on the camouflage of stripes. And humans? Humans were the mangrove forest unending.

It wasn't hard to explain this to Abe. The boy showed talent beyond his growing proficiency with the axe, tenaciously devouring the stack of books and articles Henry set out for him. Every page was a prerequisite for entering the vampire hunting trade. A few of the pamphlets even dated back to the collection Henry maintained while he was still mortal, a mere dabbler, an idiot pup who entertained the mad notion of killing monsters.

"Take care," Henry said, and slid a slim volume from the shelf. It reeked of dust and old leather, at once metallic and warm, the tang as evocative as the contents: namely, the lost diaries of Sir Thomas More, statesman, philosopher, and vampire most fierce. A personal favourite of such rarity that Henry was protective of it. Here after all was Abe, the poor, bungling sod who foolheartedly botched an attempt at taking Barts's life. But still Henry held the book out to him, explaining, "Some of these are irreplaceable. Not to mention older than I am."

Abe smiled. He was used to Henry's roughshod sentimentality, and sometimes even tried to offer up some of the same in return. Once, while Henry was out of the house appealing to his baser nature, Abe spent the afternoon in Henry's kitchen cooking up a fine feast: roast beef and rich drippings, onions and carrots and boiled potatoes. As Henry walked through the door, Abe was busy clearing the maps and scientific ephemera from dining room table to better set out two places.

The full, greasy scent that filled the halls made Henry's stomach turn, but the gesture was beyond the realm of propriety to the point of almost being _touching_. So Henry retreated to the cellar and poured two glasses -- a sturdy Bordeaux for Abe, and a claret (laced with Clara) for himself.

"So," said Henry, after a while. "What's the occasion?"

"I wanted to thank you," Abe said, swallowing down a forkful of roast. He'd cleaned one plate down to the last soggy breadcrumb and was now working on a second. The combination of good wine and so heavy a meal left him flushed in his cheeks and all the way down the long column of his throat.

Henry meanwhile emptied his glass and did his best to ignore said throat. Every fibre of him longed to taste that smooth flesh below Abe's ear, the line of his jaw, darkened as it was by a two-day beard, and to confirm the suspicion of flavour: soap beneath sweat beneath the earthy musk that still clung to him after having stood over the stove. Henry worked his fork and knife across his plate. By necessity, he was quite good at appearing to have eaten when in fact he hadn't touched a morsel -- it was all in the economy of space -- but he always rather resented having to do so. And yet Abe wasn't ready to know the truth about Henry.

But oh, Abe was watching him, eyeing the back-and-forth of Henry's hands. How damnably astute could the boy really be? Not for the first time, Henry regretted having left the decanter downstairs. He cleared his throat and pulled his napkin up to dab at his mouth, commenting smoothly, "You've come far, Abraham, but there's still a long path ahead."

"Before I get to kill Jack Barts," said Abe. He mopped the last bit of gravy off his plate with a thick tuft of crust.

"Yes," Henry agreed, knowing well enough that Barts was hardly the worst villain of the lot. He'd first send Abe after the chemists, the lawmakers, the enforcers -- and anyone else who made life easier for their kind. Just as Henry needed Abe to wield the blade, it was Barts's continued existence that would give Abe the will to do so. As long as Barts failed to show fang about town and pose a real threat, Henry would let him be.

But he simply left it at: "You will have your revenge." And this was true. He held Abe's eye, nodded, and then continued with a curl of lip, "Now, let's retire to the parlour. I finagled a rather good blend off the tobacconist. It's said to aid in digestion."

Abe pushed back in his chair and began to pile the dishes before Henry stopped him.

"Leave it for the maid," he said.

"You don't have a maid."

Henry frowned, letting his hand slide off Abe's arm. Even through the layer of coarse linen, he had felt the arc of muscle -- the fibres more prominent, he would have sworn, than they had been even a week before -- and the steady thump of Abe's blood. "Haven't I?" he murmured, wondering if he'd indeed failed to hire another girl after sharp, sanguine Abigail had observed Henry's reflection, or lack thereof, and flown the roost. Henry'd chucked out the last of the mirrors the same afternoon. He shrugged. "Well, no matter. It can wait 'til morning."

For an hour or more, they sat together on Henry's settee, passing the hookah hose back and forth between them. Abe was at first unused to the smoke, but Henry was mellowed and patient: the tobacco was as good as advertised. And when Henry sucked in on the mouthpiece, he found it was still warm.

*

Later, much later, Henry returned to town.

He rarely fed twice a week, let alone twice in a day, but he was beside himself with hunger. It was by the grace of fate alone that he didn't have to wait long to find a mark. The lad was drunk, mumbling to himself as he trotted down a sidestreet, his pockets full of poker winnings. He'd cheated, but poorly, and would soon enough find himself back in the clutches of those he'd swindled. With or without Henry's attentions, he'd not survive the night.

Henry took him down easily enough, though his height bested Henry's by at least a head. With a hand wound round the back of the lad's neck, Henry let his fingers wade in the thick mop of coppery hair as he honed in on the curve between neck and shoulder. Then he bit down.

It was just the same as every other time Henry drank.

Which is to say, it was well and truly the best thing in the world.

Henry snapped the lad's neck before letting his body settle into the dirt. It was easier to observe him from there, to assess that he was about Abe's age, or younger; that his cheeks were darkened by a two-day beard; and that his eyes were grey.

But then again, he didn't look a whit like Abe. And again, not even the unthinking universe would be so cruel.


End file.
